The bug crawled up the tree and bit me. It was small and nasty and irritating. Like the sound of a rusty cheese grater gone grey. Like the ghosts of gremlins from the past. Like the screeching of wind chimes in a universe gone awry. Like a politician in a bucket. Or a condom in a socket. Like a fork and knife in my shoe. Like green cheese and white fruit. Like cops and robbers in a movie. Like sons and mothers in a book. Like babies and daschunds in a dream. Small, nasty and irritating.